


Sins of the Father

by BisexualHannibalLecter



Category: Beowulf (Poem)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Attempted Murder, Broken Bones, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Hrothgar is a piece of shit lmao, Misogyny, Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 05:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20540837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BisexualHannibalLecter/pseuds/BisexualHannibalLecter
Summary: Beowulf, a lawyer living in California, travels to New York City to help a family friend when his business starts to go under. The heart of the matter turns out to be far more sinister that Beowulf could have ever expected.





	Sins of the Father

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote for an English assignment in which I was to take the story of Beowulf from the beginning to the defeat of Grendel and modernize it. 
> 
> Trigger warnings to my readers for implied past sexual abuse that resulted in pregnancy. Please proceed with caution- your mental health is more important than me getting hits/kudos/comments <3

Beowulf is in the middle of eating when his phone rings. He sees the caller ID name; his uncle Hygelac. He answers the call and says, “We’re in recess, but consider the case won.”

Hygelac hums on the other end. “That’s great,” he says, “but that’s not why I called you.”

Beowulf groans. “Another lawsuit?”

Hyglac chuckles. “It’s not our problem this time. Do you remember your father’s old friend? Hrothgar?”

“I do. Doesn’t he work for some modeling agency?”

“Actually, the agency works for him. He’s been running the business for twenty-odd years, now.” Hygelac lowers his voice. “He’s in some trouble, Beowulf. The modeling agency is losing workers and money fast. His agency has been going downhill for the last twelve months. Hrothgar tells me he lost thirty workers at the last party.”

“Is he suing anyone? Does he need my help with any legal proceedings?” Beowulf asks, looking at the clock.

“He needs your help, yes, but he will never ask for it. He thinks he can fix the matter on his own, but I think without some sharp-witted hero of a lawyer, his business will go under. You have an amazing reputation in the courtroom, and I think-”

“I hate to interrupt, uncle, but recess is almost over. I’ll pack my things once the case is over and go see him. He’s still in New York, yes?” Beowulf gets up and begins to walk back inside the courthouse.

The smile is obvious is Hygelac’s voice when he replies, “He is. See me before you leave. I have the feeling my favorite nephew will be gone for a while.”

“Of course, uncle. And don’t let the record label get sued while I’m gone. I can only work one case at a time.” He checks the clock, and sees he only has two minutes left. “I have to go. Goodbye, I’ll call you when the trial is over.”

“Goodbye, Beowulf,” Hyglac says. He lets the_ your father would be proud _ comment go unsaid. It isn’t as if Beowulf doesn’t know.

* * *

Beowulf spends most of the flight sleeping, and most of his way from the airport to the agency wishing he was asleep. The noise and cars and people weren’t much different from his hometown in California, but it was now several hours later in the day, and Beowulf wasn’t ready for a night in New York City. As he unpacks his things, he calls Hrothgar, but there’s no answer. He shrugs it off and tries to keep himself busy until the morning.

The next day he takes a cab to Scylding Modeling. Getting inside was simple, but convincing the woman at the front desk to let him see Hrothgar was proving to be more difficult.

"My father is an old friend of his," Beowulf insists.

"Do you have an appointment?" the secretary asks, for what feels like the hundredth time.

Beowulf groans. "I'm a lawyer. Beowulf, I work with Hrunting Records out in California."

She looks up at him, and Beowulf thinks maybe she'll finally let him up to Hrothgar's office.

"You can make an appointment, or come back with judicial papers."

Beowulf is about to speak, when another man walks over. He has a camera hanging from a thick strap around his neck, and the logo of the company is emblazoned on his coat.

"Did you say Hrunting Records?" the mystery man asks.

Beowulf raises an eyebrow. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm Unferth." Unferth extends his hand. "I'm a photographer here, and Hrothgar's right hand. You must be here about Hrothgar's little… problem," he says, his voice low.

Beowulf nods. "I am. Can you take me to see Hrothgar? I'm not having much luck with this woman."

"No need," says a voice from behind Beowulf.

Beowulf turns and sees who can only be Hrothgar. He's tall, perhaps six feet, wearing a three-piece suit, with a trimmed gray beard and short, slicked back hair. He's in his fifties, Beowulf guess, and has a much younger blonde woman on his arm. 

"Hrothgar, I presume," Beowulf says. "The career-starter; leader of the beautiful."

"Is that what the tabloids call me these days?" he asks coyly. "And who might you be?"

"I am Beowulf. I work for Hrunting Records in California. I believe you knew my father."

"Ecgtheow!" Hrothgar exclaims. "You're his son! How good to see you, Beowulf. It's been ages."

"Twenty years, I believe. You visited me and my father on my tenth birthday."

"I remember. You were so small then, but so smart. And you've become a lawyer!" Hrothgar places a hand on Beowulf's shoulder. "Your father would be so proud. I was sad to hear of his passing."

Beowulf nods. "Thank you." He looks at the woman standing with Hrothgar. "Who is this?"

"This is my wife, Wealhtheow. She started as one of my models at just nineteen. And here we are, twelve years later, happily married."

Beowulf cringes on the inside, but keeps on the fake smile. He can only pray to Odin that Wealhtheow will come to her senses, or that someone will be able to pull her out of her current _ arrangement _. "Congratulations. Now, could we go up to your office and talk? I'm here to help." 

Hrothgar smiles. "Yes, of course. Your help is more than welcome. Do you mind if my wife sits in? I consider all of my business affairs to be hers as well. Anything you have to say to me about the company, you can say to her."

"If her name isn't listed under company ownership, it would be best if she doesn't. You have potentially deep legal problems on your hands, and this could cause a lot of hangups in court."

Hrothgar nods. "Yes, of course." He steps onto the elevator with Beowulf, then fishes his wallet from his coat pocket. "Here, my darling," he says, pulling out a credit card. "I'll probably be tied up with Beowulf all day. Go have fun, and I'll call you when I'm finished here."

Wealhtheow kisses Hrothgar on the cheek. "Thank you, love. I'll see you at home. Maybe we can go out for dinner if you finish early enough?" she suggests hopefully.

"Sure. I'll let you know, Wealhtheow. Have a good day."

Wealhtheow flashes a smile at her husband, but then looks past him, at Beowulf. “I will,” she replies.

Hrothgar waves goodbye to her, and Beowulf assumes he must not have caught how she was looking past him, not at him. Beowulf tries to shake off the interaction and focus on the matter at hand.

“So,” he says, once the elevator doors slide shut, “what seems to be the issue, Hrothgar?”

* * *

”Let me get this straight,” Beowulf says, standing up. He feels like he’s been sitting in Hrothgar’s uncomfortable office guest chair all day, but the clock shows that only three hours have passed. “You’re pinning all of this on a twenty-four year old photography and design student that started interning last year?” 

Hrothgar nods and strokes his chin. “He’s so familiar, Beowulf, but I cannot place him. I feel as though he’s here for revenge. Maybe I fired his sister.”

Beowulf shakes his head. “No one would go that far because you fired their sister.”

“You don’t understand the amount of pull my business has, Beowulf. I own one of the most well-known and influential modeling agencies on this side of the globe. I teach gorgeous women how to make thousands, millions even, just by walking around and posing and looking nice. I launch careers in the modeling and fashion industries, and many of my models go on to act in film and television. We had one go on to be in musical theatre shows on off-broadway, but no one talks about her.”

Beowulf purses his lips. “...Right. Well, I still doubt someone that’s been interning for about a year is the reason your modeling empire is going under. It just doesn’t add up.”

“But it does!” Hrothgar insists. “A month after he started is when things started going downhill. This is his doing.”

“What if he’s a red herring?” Beowulf asks. “What if the real culprit waiting until you hired someone unfamiliar so that the blame would be placed on the stranger?”

“That’s very clever,” Hrothgar agrees. “But, please, humor an old man, will you? Look into Grendel for me. Do as much digging as you’re legally allowed to.”

“That’s not a lot, but I’ll try. I’ll also need to see all of your financial records going back eighteen months. Is that okay?”

“Fine by me. I have an entire department over the agency’s finances. I’ll tell the department’s head to give you what you need.” Hrothgar stands and walks to the table on the other side of the room, reaching for a bottle of alcohol. Scotch, if Beowulf had to guess. “How about a drink, and you join me and my wife tonight for dinner.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. We still have more to talk about, and…” Beowulf isn’t sure if he should mention the way Wealhtheow looked at him earlier.

“And you think my wife will flirt with you. She has a tendency to do that. Lord knows she didn’t marry me for my good looks.” He pours himself a drink and looks back at Beowulf. “Maybe if you fix my problem I’ll divorce her and send her off to California with a good bit of money. Then you won’t have to feel so bad.”

Beowulf stares at Hrothgar, put-off and speechless. He swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Well?” Hrothgar asks, holding up his glass. “What about that drink?”

Beowulf relents and spends the next three hours pleasantly tipsy as Hrothgar carries on about Heorot, his mansion, and all the great parties he hosts there. When six o’clock rolls around, the both of them are closer to sober than drunk, and Hrothgar makes arrangements at a nearby restaurant for a party of three. Beowulf lets himself be dragged to the restaurant, and enjoys a wonderful dinner, telling himself to simply relax for the evening. 

He goes home with Hrothgar and Wealhtheow, to Hrothgar’s great mansion, Heorot, to continue drinking and talking with them. It’s probably a bad idea, he thinks to himself, to be mixing work and friends and fun this much. He ignores his better judgement in favor of another drink and another loud story from Hrothgar.

He can work tomorrow, he tells himself. It isn’t as if the company will come crashing down overnight.

* * *

The company survives the night, but the same cannot be said for Hrothgar. 

Beowulf wakes up to Wealhtheow screaming. He bolts upright and grabs the robe hanging from one of the bedposts, throwing it on over his underwear and t-shirt before rushing out of the room. He finds Wealhtheow passed out in Hrothgar’s room, and Hrothgar missing. He leaves Wealhtheow on the floor and heads back into the hallway, running down the stairs and into the foyer. 

“Hrothgar!” he yells. “Hrothgar, where are you?” 

Beowulf doesn’t wonder for much longer. Just as he enters the living room, something falling passes right by the large window at the other end of the room. Beowulf walks over to the window and is shocked to see Hrothgar lying in the grass. He grabs the phone off the coffee table, but finds that the line is dead when he places the receiver to his ear. He curses himself for leaving his phone in his room and runs back to the stairs. 

Just as he begins to ascend the staircase, he spots someone at the top, even in the dim light. The person is a young man in his early twenties, and Beowulf speaks a name, knowing it’s a shot in the dark;

“Grendel.”

“Beowulf,” Grendel replies.

“Hrothgar must have been right when he told me you were running his business into the ground. And now it seems that you’ve run him into the ground as well.”

“His death was always part of the plan,” Grendel reveals. “You getting in my way wasn’t. And me killing him directly wasn’t, either. I’ll take what I can get, though. If you would’ve stayed away I could’ve bided my time and let the guilt and shame consume him.”

“You won’t get away with this, Grendel.” Beowulf takes a few more steps. 

“And what will you do to stop me? I have no weapons, I plan to do nothing more than leave- what’s the point?”

Beowulf, now near the top of the stairs, lunges at Grendel. The point, he thinks, is to make sure Grendel is brought to justice. That was the point from the very beginning, and Beowulf won’t let a liar, thief, and murderer to simply slip away from him. 

The fight between them is more of a scuffle, more like a bar brawl, but to Beowulf it’s noble regardless. Even when he plays dirty and shoves Grendel down the stairs. Grendel groans from his place on the floor, crying out in pain when he moves one of his arms. Beowulf assumes it was broken due to the fall.

He takes his time walking down the stairs, not even hearing the footsteps of Wealhtheow behind him.

“Beowulf! Are you alright?” she asks. 

“I’m alright. Are you?” he answers, not bothering to look back at her.

“Fine,” she replies. “Is he…”

“He’s incapacitated. Call the police.”

“I already have,” she says.

“Wait for them outside, then. Did you ask for an ambulance?”

Wealhtheow nods as she walks past Beowulf. “I did. Where is my husband?”

Beowulf grimaces. “Outside,” he replies, now looking at her. “I’m sorry, Wealhtheow. I don’t think he’s…”

Wealhtheow gasps and rushes outside. From his place on the floor, Grendel lets out a choked laugh.

“What do you have to be laughing about?” Beowulf asks, making his way down the stairs. He raises his voice and says, “What are you laughing at?”

“Good riddance,” he spits. “Farewell to the life-ruiner; soul-stealer.”

Beowulf kicks Grendel in the chest. “You will not speak of him that way!”

Grendel groans and grabs Beowulf’s ankle. “I’m living proof,” he says. “Proof of his evil. Proof of terrible crimes he’s committed. Twenty-” His grip on Beowulf’s ankle tightens, and he grimaces. “Twenty-five years ago he ruined his first life. He ripped the soul out of a woman that trusted him. She was _ sixteen _...” Tears roll down Grendel’s face. “She was sixteen,” he repeats, “and she was my mother.”

Beowulf thought the world had come crashing down around him when his father died. He thought it had come crashing down when he saw Hrothgar’s body lying in the grass, having fallen from a great height. Now, Beowulf felt as if both events had just occurred again, at the same time, and the feelings had been pulled from his chest, multiplied, and forced back into him.

“Are things still black and white for you, Beowulf? Is everything as clear-cut as it was before?” He coughs and lets go of Beowulf. “Don’t you wonder?” he asks. “Don’t you wonder how many other people he’s done this to? Don’t you think he had it coming?”

Before Beowulf can respond, the police rush in. He stands there and watches as they try to handcuff Grendel before realizing his arm is broken and calling the paramedics in. He feels numb, like nothing is processing in his brain, like he’s simply ceased to function.

“Sir,” a police officer says. “Sir, we need to ask you some questions about what happened here.”

Beowulf swallows and nods. “Yes, of course. I-”

“Beowulf!” Wealhtheow exclaims, embracing him as she cries. 

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the officer says, stepping away.

“The paramedics couldn’t give me an answer,” she says, pulling away to wipe her tears. “He might die. I’m so worried, Beowulf.”

“I know,” he replies softly, setting a hand on her shoulder. “It will all be okay.”

She nods and sniffles. “I can’t believe he just...came in here like he did. He didn’t even have any weapons on him. How did he think he was going to get away?”

“I don’t think he planned on getting away,” Beowulf replies.

“That’s not very smart,” Wealhtheow remarks.

Beowulf hums. “Like father, like son, I suppose.”

“What?”

Beowulf realizes what slipped out of his mouth and his heart nearly stops. “It’s nothing,” he lies. “We need to speak to the police, come on,” he says, leading Wealhtheow outside. 

Beowulf thinks about the last words Grendel said to him. “_ Don’t you think he had it coming? _” The question rings in his head, reminding him of how he feels no guilt, no regret, no sadness for Hrothgar. 

Beowulf trusts in fate, in the plan laid out for him and everyone else in the world, something no one can change or tamper with. And in his trust, he makes peace with his answer to Grendel’s final question.

Beowulf walked out of Heorot hoping that Hrothgar had truly received everything he had coming for him, and that when the news broke, it would provide some sort of relief for those he had hurt.

Farewell to Hrothgar, life ruiner and spirit breaker, Beowulf thinks. Farewell to the soul stealer with the hope that it is the last time a farewell is bid to him.  


**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story please leave a kudos! Comments are super appreciated! If you want to find/follow/friend me on other platforms, here are my usernames! Don’t be shy! 
> 
> @bisexywill on Tumblr (Main Blog)  
@bisexual-hannibal-lecter on Tumblr (Writing Blog)  
@bisexywill on Twitter (Writing Updates & Stuff)  
@baby mongoose#6953 on Discord


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